


Recovering the Twins

by Churbooseanon



Series: Guns For Hire [11]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Guns For Hire AU, Mercenaries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-16
Updated: 2014-07-16
Packaged: 2018-02-09 02:04:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1964775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Churbooseanon/pseuds/Churbooseanon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's supposed to be a simple job for the Twins. Get in, get out. They've done it a hundred times before.</p><p>No one's ever doubted their skill enough to think they'd need backup. They never have before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Recovering the Twins

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yeison](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeison/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Guns For Hire AU](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/61764) by Synnesai. 



> There is this wonderful open AU created by the talented Synnesai of Tumblr. This is the first of my contributions to it, looking into how certain characters came to know each other. Head on over to check out the art, check out the guns for hire fic tag, and consider joining in.

They handle it different ways. 

South, for instance, is seething. He can read it in the tension in his sister's shoulders, the way her helmet is angled in just the right position to look like she's giving her full attention to the mousy looking man that has hired them, but really means that her eyes are on the gray and gold clad man leaning against the far wall. His twin sister is bristling at the man while seeming no more prickly than she normally is, unless, of course you're him. He can read her without needing to see her face, without needing to watch the slightly tighter than normal clench of her hands, without noticing that she has kept her left hand disturbingly close to the knife at her thigh.

North, on the other hand, openly watches the other mercenary as he toys with a knife, spinning it through his nimble fingers, flicking it up into the air at a quick spin, catching the blade between his fingers and not flinching in a way that would say he was cut. It's a series of motions, repeated and competent, that makes him think of CT. She's always been good with blades, a natural really, and that sort of calm, confident air with the knife screams of her style. Which makes sense, North supposes, as he's heard her talk about Recovery before. 

“We don't _need_ support,” South is snarling, her voice strained and dangerous, and for once, North agrees with her. 

“I'm not _support_ ,” the man observes from his place against the wall, taking the fight over from the mousy man that had hired them for the work. He throws the knife into the air once more, catches it by the handle despite how quickly it's whirling while it falls, and tucks it somewhere about his person as he strides forward. “I'm not here to get in your way. I'm not here to cover you asses and interrupt the little family party you've got going on. I'm here for if you _fuck up_. I'm here to haul your asses out of the fire and make sure the job gets done. I'm here to stand back, watch, and drop in if _someone_ ,” the helmeted head flicks obviously toward South and North knows it's meant—and taken—as an insult, “blows it all to high hell. I'm _Recovery_ , not a fucking baby-sitter.”

“And we don't _need_ you,” South repeats, pushing away from the table with the mousy man—who stopped being part of the conversation the second he'd explained Recovery's presence—and starting for the other mercenary. North grabs her as she passes, more out of habit than because he cares to protect the man from her wrath. 

“And I'm saying that, need it or not, I'm what you get,” Recovery countered, striding so close that North almost thinks that merc is daring his sister to go after him. Which would be well and good if North hadn't all but put himself between them. “My front price has already been paid, just like yours. I'm in this until the job is done, with or without you.”

“This isn't something you can do on your own,” North observes, his voice calm and controlled and his usual business tones, and it seems like it's only then that Recovery notices him, looking up to meet his helmeted gaze, and it's only then that how _small_ the man is really hits home. His head comes to North's shoulder, making him a shade shorter than South, and yet he radiates a calm self-assurance that North knows best from Number One. Sure, you couldn't _be_ a merc of any caliber without confidence, without arrogance, and without some measure of skill to back it up. But there was only ever a small number who ever managed to pull it off with such ease and almost indifference to the situation. There's leadership potential in this Recovery, right down to his core, and yet he's clearly chosen to work solo. 

And North can almost respect that. 

“I'm doing it either way,” Recovery notes, brushing past North and making for the door the Twins had come in through. “I've already been briefed. When you two get over your wounded egos, I'll be outside. Either man up and act like professionals, or back out.”

South doesn't just seethe as Recovery walks off, scales the stairs and is gone. No, she goes tense in a feral sort of way that has gotten them into no small number of bar fights at Errera. He keeps his grip on his sister, keeps her there, keeps her grounded, until she finally shakes it off and turns back to the mousy man who has only gotten mousier. North, for what it is worth, returns his attention to the problem at hand rather than the one he knows he's going to have to deal with in a few minutes. One thing at a time. That was how a mercenary had to survive. 

* * * * * *

North has to give Recovery one thing: he's a consummate professional. When South comes at him right out of their briefing she's fists and elbows and even a knee. Recovery moves like water, a series of blocks, ducks, and evasions that leave South stumbling away from him, ego bruised but body undamaged. North allows himself a smirk in the safety of his helmet and appreciates the way that South can easily push herself to her feet and dust herself off and look at Recovery with a new tilt to her head that is almost respect. In seconds he had dealt with South, left no damage that would affect the mission, and had just turned to look at North as if to be sure that he wasn't going to have to do it again.

“Professional or bail?” Recover asks, his voice cool and professional, as if he hadn't just laid North's sister out flat. 

“Professional,” North agrees, striding past Recovery toward the waiting truck. He's unsurprised when the man almost immediately into step with him, a pace behind and a few steps away to keep himself completely out of North's easy reach. It's almost exactly on the edge that North would have used if their positions—and reaches—had been reversed, and the man seems to do it with an almost instinctual ease that matches how soundly he'd put South on her ass and makes North smirk to himself. 

Recovery is _good_. North watches the man move out of the corner of his eye with a grace that isn't quite sinuous—how can it be when North has to compare him to Carolina and Connie—and a restrained power in his arms and legs that falls short of Maine and still inspires confidence. More than before, North is starting to believe that if something goes wrong, this man can pull them out of it, and he isn't quite sure what to do with that realization. It's his job to look out for South, his job to cover their asses, his job to protect her. 

The fact that someone didn't think they could do it on their own almost makes him certain that everything is going to go to hell and he's going to have to rely on this unknown quantity to keep South safe. North isn't comfortable with that, not by a long shot. 

“She going to abide by that decision?” Recovery demands to know, as if he's asking about nothing more complicated than whether North was carrying enough extra magazines for his rifles. It's utterly professional and completely ignoring the insane complexity of the question. 

North glances back over his shoulder, finds South trailing them with a restrained energy in her posture that speaks of the urge for a rematch, and new found respect. Should have known that the whole thing would make her appreciative of the man's skill, if aching to put him in his place. Still, she's not making a move to press the issue now, not with the way she's got her muscle pod resting against her shoulder, and she only does that when she doesn't expect to need it quickly. At least Recovery's got that vote of confidence. 

“Looks like it,” North observes, unable to keep the chuckle from his voice. Equally unable, with his training and practice as a sniper, to miss the little stutter in Recovery's step and wonder just what brought that on. The only thing that had been happening had been him...

Oh dear, North observed to himself with a slight curve of his lips. Thief had told him more than once that his voice was like armor-piercing rounds through an SRS99 sniper rifle: dangerous in the right hands. Okay, so maybe Thief hadn't put it in quite those terms, but it sounded better that way, and North couldn't believe the fact that he'd managed to score a hit without even trying.

Made him wonder what he could achieve if he was.

“Good. I'm going to assume that you've upgraded those helmets of yours with high end motion trackers, comm systems, and chronometers.”

“Of course,” North agreed, though it was more honest to say that he used to do that and now CT managed keeping them top of the line during their down time. Still, he knew he had what Recovery needed and probably then some. 

“Good. Before we're feet on the ground I'll give you both my frequency. I want radio contact with South at all times, silence from you unless absolutely necessary. I'm assuming you've got encryption protocols to cover your communication with South, and we'll allow for those. Otherwise, I want you heads down and...”

“You're not running this job,” North pointed out, though he found himself hard pressed to argue any of Recovery's points. They were all things he had been intending to say when they got in the vehicle. 

“No. I'm only telling you what you already know,” Recovery answered, stopping at the truck and uncovering the bed for them. North holds back the impressed whistle at the sheer range of weaponry back there. Everything from boxes of grenades and ammunition to assault rifles and shotguns, and even what looks like a rather respectable flamethrower. Without needing to be urged North lowers his ladies into the truck bed, wrapping them in a blanket he finds in the corner as Recovery unrolls another to lay out that South soon loads her missile pod and a few other smaller arms in at his prompting. “And how I operate. I'll be waiting in the wings for you to call. I'll also move if I deem the situation going bad. That's why I need to be able to monitor your frequencies. You seem more... stable than the other, and I want radio silence from you because I want to react immediately if I hear your voice.”

North can respect that, more than he wants to admit, and he nods in agreement as he circles to the door of the truck. “I think we're going to work well together, Recovery.”

“I'm not here for your approval,” the man says, his voice sharp and somehow patient, like he's had to explain this a thousand times over. “I'm here to get the job done.”

* * * * * *

They need him.

North realizes it when he's watching South run out onto the helipad of the building they had been meaning to strike. The plan had been for her to make enough ruckus to drive the target to the roof, to put him in the perfect position for North to take down. Instead she's there, throwing herself against the door, and whether it's confidence or pride she isn't _saying_ anything. There isn't even her ragged breathing on their frequency. She's going silent because she doesn't want Recovery in there. 

With a sigh he sets up a line on the door, knowing that it isn't going to be enough to help her, and he flips comm frequencies so he's on the channel they had set up with Recovery. 

“We've got trouble,” he says, and South's becomes a string of curses over the line that he brushes them aside. 

“Understood,” was all Recovery said, his voice calm and composed and heavy with the implication that he had expected such a thing to happen. 

“South needs...”

“I know what she needs.”

South's retreating from the door and North has no time to grit his teeth in annoyance at Recovery, his entire attention is on the view from his scope. He has the time to see her gun come up and then the door busts open and he's popping off round after round, not bothering to lead his targets because they keep coming. Instead his focus is on building a mound of bodies to slow the advance down so South can handle it herself. 

“North,” Recovery's voice is a bastion of calm, and crystal clear. “There are two ways this goes.”

“Do you mind, I'm trying to keep my sister alive. You should be too,” North growls, ejecting an empty magazine, hauling another from his pack and slamming it home before starting to fire again. 

“My job is to complete the mission,” Recovery reminded him, and there was a sick feeling in his stomach. 

“Fuck you,” South snarled over the radio, her voice over the terrifying backdrop of intense gunfire. “You fucking... Ah!” 

Her pained cry made North want to swivel his sights toward her, but he needed to keep bottle necking the stair well if she was to have any chance. 

“Like I said, there's two ways this goes, North. I'm obligated to finish the mission, not get you out. I have to _finish the job_ , North. And I know where the target is.”

The realization flashes through North like a searing pain. Acceptance follows almost immediately afterward. “Where?”

A locator flashes on his helmet and North tears his eyes from the roof, from the danger to South, and he lets his sight trail down and aside and to a window. He puts his faith in the placement, even though there is a room covered with curtains. Because if it's wrong, he loses his sister. Lines up the flashing point. 

“I've got the shot.”

“I'm moving,” Recovery answers, and there is something like approval in his voice. 

North takes a breath, gauges wind speed and direction, breathes in, holds, fires. 

* * * * * *

“I still don't like him,” South growls into North's ear, as they wait for the door down into the place where they had met the mousy man to open. There's pain in her tone—he hadn't had the chance to do more than slow the bleeding from the bullet she had taken in the shoulder—and there isn't as much bile in her voice as there could have been. “We could have...”

“He had a job to do,” North reminds her, and they both know his voice is heavy with the fact that Wash had saved her by giving _him_ what was needed to finish the job. “He told us going in...”

“Don't fucking care. A merc leaving another out to dry is only going to make assholes think they can just buy us out from under one another,” South snarls, and there isn't anything personal in her voice. Just the same generalized anger she's heard South spout at CT sitting around on quiet nights after jobs. 

“He didn't leave you out to dry,” North counters with another sigh and he knows she is just angry, just hurting, because she'd messed up. 

“He's a jinx.”

“What?”

“Recovery. He's a fucking jinx,” South sighs, her hand coming up and hovering just by her wound and not quite getting there. Her fingers curl just short of it in the way they do when she's holding back from scratching a bug bite or prodding at a cut. South's always been that kind of person. “It only went wrong because he was on the take.”

North wanted to counter with the fact that Recovery had been thrown at the problem had suggested it was a lot more dangerous than they'd allowed themselves to believe. You didn't put the money required for someone of the skill North had seen him display on the roof into the pot unless you were certain you needed it, or you were desperate to get the work done. On a kill mission like this, it was typically the latter. 

He wanted to counter and he didn't because the door to the room opened and Recovery was striding out of the small room, his step lighter and a canvas bag over his shoulder that hadn't been there when he'd gone in ahead of them. The man climbs the steps, hands in his pockets, and doesn't even bother to look at them. South scoffs, pushing off of the wall, stumbles through the door. They just want to get paid and get out of here, get back to base, get to Florida's capable hands so he can sew up the wound in South's shoulder after making sure North had managed to dig out all of the bullet fragments. And yet North stops short of the door, looks back over his shoulder, and he finds Recovery standing there, at the top of the steps, watching him. 

“Sorry about what happened,” the man says, a hand coming up to his hip. 

“All in a day's work,” North shrugs in response, as if they don't both know that South is only alive because of Recovery. As if they'd only gotten out of this paid and relatively unhurt because Recovery had chosen to risk the job for South. 

He watches as the man's hands come up, flick over the latches on his helmet. Stares with wide eyes at the warm skin and soft gray eyes and clearly bleached hair and a gentle smile that didn't suit the murder that Recovery carried himself with during a mission. “You're good, North. Someone else might have hesitated, worried about trusting me. Your sister is only alive because of that trust.”

There is a certainty in those eyes, and approval yet again, and North's heart is in his throat as the smile turns into a smirk as Recovery tucks his helmet under his arm. 

“I hope we'll work together again in the future.”

North stares after Recovery until he's completely out of sight, and when he turns back toward the room, moves to join South, he smiles to himself and resolves to ask CT about the guy. Chances are she'd know about him, and North found himself wanting to know as well.


End file.
